


Have You Tried Turning it Off?

by Persiflager



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 15:58:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1555964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persiflager/pseuds/Persiflager
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/21231.html?thread=123149807#t123149807"> this prompt</a> on the kinkmeme - A day in the life of Jim from IT.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have You Tried Turning it Off?

Jim stopped believing in the Riemann hypothesis around the same time he stopped believing in God, and for much the same reason - that being useful or beautiful or even necessary does not make a thing true.

The world, on the whole, is not useful, or beautiful, or necessary.

…

Thursday 25 March 2010

09:37

Jim has a name badge. It says ‘JIM’ in 18 point Helvetica font and dangles round his neck on a nylon lanyard that would wreak havoc on any shirt worth wearing. Fortunately, Jim is not wearing a decent shirt today. It is his first day working in the IT department of St Bartholomew’s Hospital and all of his clothes are from Gap.

Gareth (playing the role of Jim’s superior, and blissfully unaware of the risks he is running in doing so) appears to be mostly wearing man-made fibres. He also has a beard. A _beard_. Actual, deliberate, unkempt facial hair that looks like it belongs on a 1970s Open University lecture explaining the four-colour theorem. 

“So is that all ok?” asks Gareth. He has shadows under his eyes and his desk is littered with empty polystyrene cups. “Sorry it’s all been a bit rushed - we’re short-handed at the moment and the system got hacked last week, so it’s been mental.”

“No problem,” says Jim. He’s quite impressed at Gareth’s tactfulness in not mentioning exactly why they’re short-handed, even if it was ruled natural causes.

“Let me know if you’ve got any questions.”

“Will do!”

Jim’s desk phone rings shrilly. He flexes his fingers and picks up. “Hello, IT department.”

“Yeah, hi, I’ve got a problem with my computer…” 

Jim rolls his shoulders, slackens his face muscles, and proceeds to be cheerfully, plausibly incompetent.

 

10:21

Jim has the beginnings of an ugly headache pinching at the base of his skull. He takes off his headset, yawns, and rubs his earlobes.

“No problem, Dr Stamford,” he hears Gareth saying. “I’ll send someone up this morning.” Gareth disconnects the call and looks round to find Jim smiling at him.

“Anything I can help with?” Jim pitches his voice at the ‘Selfridges assistant’ level of helpfulness and screws his face into an irritating smile.

To his credit, Gareth hesitates for a moment - Jim must have been showing too many teeth. Then his gaze flicks back to his computer screen and the moment is lost. 

“One of the lecturers is having a problem with his email account,” he says, scribbling down the name and room number. “Over in Dominion House. Do you know how to get there?”

Jim takes the piece of paper, folds it, and tucks it into his breast pocket with a neat little pat. “I think I can find my way.”

 

10:49

‘Dr Michael Stamford’ is the name on the open office door. Jim looks through the glass window for a moment before knocking. “Dr Stamford?” he calls, letting his voice trail off at the end.

“Come in!”

Jim steps inside the office to find a round, wobbly face smiling at him. “Hi, Dr Stamford,” he says, widening his stance slightly and dropping his hands to his sides, palms facing outwards. “Gareth said you had a problem with your email?”

“Yes, that’s right,” says Stamford, pushing his chair back and standing up. “Thanks for coming so quickly. It’s been slow all morning and now it’s packed in entirely.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and gestures at his PC. “I’ve tried-”

Jim nods and smiles, letting Stamford’s words wash over him as he sits down and flexes his fingers. He seems … nice. Good old Mike.

Grey rain sleets against the window, obscuring the view of the Radiotherapy Department over the road. The office interior is similarly drab, the only decoration provided by the certificates on the wall and a framed photo of Mike with two dumpy children on his desk. Yellow post-it notes stuck by the mouse-pad remind Mike to pick the cat up from the vet after work, speak to Susan about her presentation, fill out his CPD form. Nothing untoward or out of place at all.

Jim taps a series of meaningless key strokes before finally disabling the virus that had crippled Mike’s email account. “There you go,” he says, hopping up and waving at the PC. “Should be right as rain now.”

“Thanks mate.” Mike sits back down, the chair letting out a sigh of protest.

“You’re welcome.” By the time Jim slips out the door, Mike’s already forgotten about him.

 

11:23

“Alright?” asks Gareth when Jim sits back down.

“Yes. Fine.” Jim drums his fingers on the desk.

The phone rings. “Hello, IT?” 

“Yeah, so I’ve got a problem with my-” The woman has a Mancunian accent and appears to be eating an apple. It’s a work of a moment to track her call - hello, Julie Keenan from HR! -, locate her IP address, spot the problem and fix it.

“Have you tried closing Internet Explorer and re-opening it?” says Jim in a nasal monotone.

“Yes, of course I have.” Oh, Julie does sound cross.

Jim grimaces dramatically. “It’s the process,” he explains regretfully, “I have to go through the script. Would you mind closing Internet Explorer and re-opening it?”

“Fine,” snaps Julie. “But this is - oh. It’s working now.”

Jim leaves a reproachful pause before responding. “Well, that’s good. Anything else I can help you with?”

“No. Thanks.” Julie hangs up. 

 

13.19

The lunch options in the hospital canteen today are: sandwiches, salad bar, jacket potato with baked beans and/or cheese (50p extra for both), tomato soup and a bread roll, shepherds pie (sic) or vegetarian lasagne.

After some deliberation, Jim opts for the lasagne. He takes his tray over to a large, partially occupied table on the far side of the room and sits down with his book.

“What are you reading?”

Jim looks up to see a haggardly cheerful woman from the IT department smiling diagonally across the table at him. He tilts the book upwards so that she can read the title.

“Dynamics of combustion?” she says, pulling a face.

“Open University.”

“Good read, is it?”

Jim smiles with his eyes. “Inspirational.” He holds her gaze until she looks away.

 

17:23

Jim looks at his watch, sighs loudly and heads over to the kitchenette at the far side of the open-plan office to get a drink. 

As he stirs milk into his polystyrene cup of instant coffee, his attention is caught by the large noticeboard hanging next to the fridge. There in one corner, half-covered by fire safety notices and pleas for the microwave to be kept clean, is a crumpled A4 sheet of paper with a grainy, black-and-white security camera photo of a man with an angular face and dark, wavy hair printed on it. 

_Memo: ALL STAFF_

_Please note that this man is NOT a Barts employee and should NOT be given access to the labs or equipment without the express permission of a member of staff._

_Don’t hold doors open for people you don’t know unless they show you their Barts ID. A safe hospital is everyone’s responsibility!_

_\- Security_

Jim blows across the top of his drink and smiles.

Gareth comes over to join him. “So, no problems?” 

Jim shakes his head. 

“Haven’t strangled anyone for asking stupid questions?” asks Gareth with a grin as he stirs a second packet of sugar into his tea.

“Not yet!”

“Great.” Gareth leans slightly closer and for a moment Jim thinks Gareth’s going to clap him on the shoulder, but he appears to think better of it and stands back. “Well, back to the coalface.” He takes his tea and makes his way back through the crowded office to his desk.

“Hi ho, hi ho,” sings Jim to himself before finishing the bitter, gritty dregs of his coffee with a wince. “It’s off to work I go.”

The image of a red, ripe, shiny apple flashes briefly across his mind.

 

19:51

Jim checks his watch before stepping out of the stairwell and walking slowly along the basement corridor. He looks up as he goes, reading all the signs, and lets a small frown wrinkle his forehead.

A woman enters the corridor just in front of him. She’s small and frumpily dressed, with a bobbled cardigan, neat ponytail and sensible handbag. 

“Are you lost?” she asks. Her whole body shines with the desire to be useful. He imagines that she often had the same conversation with stray cats when she was little.

He drops his eyes to meet hers and smiles with a sigh, letting his shoulders relax. “Yes!” he says. “God, I’m such an idiot. Do you know where the security office is?” He holds her gaze until a faint blush appears on her cheeks.

“It’s just round the corner. I can show you if you like.” 

“Would you? That’s really kind.” They walk down the corridor in silence apart from the loud tapping of her shoes on the tiles. Jim’s shoes make no sound.

“Here it is,” she says, pointing at a closed door labelled ‘Security’.

“Thanks so much,” says Jim. “You’re so helpful.” He means it.

The woman practically vibrates with pleasure. She shakes her head at the compliment as if she’s a wet dog trying to throw it off. “Oh, it’s no trouble at all.” She hesitates. “Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

Jim smiles and gives her a little wave. “See you around.”

He looks down at the piece of paper in his hand and listens to Molly’s footsteps echo away until her lab door clicks open, like the last piece of a puzzle falling into place. Then he pulls out his phone and dials. “It’s me. Time for Mr Harrison to settle his debt. Have a word, would you?”

He hangs up, pockets his phone and walks back the way he came, whistling.

…

Luckily, Jim doesn’t need to believe in the Riemann hypothesis to use it; the primes dance just as prettily for the apostate as they do for the faithful, making and breaking codes at the touch of a button. It’s one of the many (arguably infinite, for a given value of infinity) ways that numbers are superior to people. 

People are nothing but blood and bones and belief. 

Once, years ago, Jim saw a Punch and Judy show at a village fair. As he sat there with the other boys and girls, cheering on the violence with a bloodthirst that would never be tolerated in adults, he realised for the first time that that was how the world was – there were puppets, and the people who watched them, and then there was the man who made them dance. And if you reached round and felt no strings on your back, then that only left two choices.

Jim just hopes that all the effort he’s gone to will be properly appreciated.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Have You Tried Turning it Off (podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10222091) by [Caveat_Lector](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caveat_Lector/pseuds/Caveat_Lector)




End file.
